The author's note is at the bottom, along with a huge-ass apology for being a terrible updater.
Heads Up: this chapter is two parts, and don't worry, I will be posting the second part either tomorrow or Saturday.
Enjoy!
Sherlock Holmes likes to think of himself as a man of action. He likes to believe that once a plan has rooted itself in his mind, he can seamlessly follow through without hesitating or second-guessing himself like most ordinary, boring people. In the past, this self-image was well-founded because he was a man of action; if he had a lead on a case, he followed it. If he harbored suspicion towards something, he looked into it. And if a chase presented itself, he was off and running long before doubt had the opportunity to assemble.
In short, when Sherlock Holmes decided he wanted something, he didn't sit around twiddling his thumbs, he took it.
Yet for some reason, it has been forty-eight hours, ten minutes, and twenty-six seconds since his decision to confront John,and thus far he has only managed to weakly compliment John's shirt and stubbornly refuse eye contact.
..
Yesterday:
"Sherlock you're acting a bit strange, are you okay? You've been all out of sorts since your mum visited."
Sherlock ducked his head behind the book he was currently pretending to read and made an ambiguous noise in the back of his throat, hoping John would deem the response acceptable.
"Pardon?"
Okay, so apparently not. Wearily, Sherlock lowered the book and stared at John, annoyed to find he was just as lovely as he'd been yesterday and every day before that; the man was certainly not making this whole 'I'm currently avoiding you to prolong confrontation' thing easy. "I'm fine."
"Really. Well then please explain why you haven't spoken more than five words to me since—"
"I like your shirt. It suits you," Sherlock blurted out. Partially to cut off the ensuing rant and partially because it had been a whole day since he'd complimented John, and the compulsion to do so had become too strong to resist.
John gave him a strange look but relented.
..
But aside from that brief and undoubtedly strange encounter yesterday, he has made no progress in confessing his feelings.
Suffice to say, Sherlock is frustrated with himself.
Considering all of the mad shite he's done in the past—leaping across rooftops and sparring with trained assassins, to name a few—saying three bloody words to someone who is more than likely going to respond favorably should be the easiest thing in the world. Unfortunately, this action is not an easy one because there are so many damn complications to it; for every positive entity there is an accompanying negative one.
In fact, he has spent the past two nights staring at his ceiling and entertaining said entities, mentally carving items into his ongoing pros-and-cons list:
Pro: John clearly likes him, as evident by the kiss on the cheek and top of his head, the cuddling after he was sick, and the general affection he seems to have for Sherlock.
Con: John may like him, but his romantic interests have always been in women, not men. Perhaps he has affection for Sherlock, but that does not mean he wishes to become romantically involved with him.
Pro: If John reciprocates his feelings then he will have gained an invaluable relationship.
Con: On the other hand, if John does not feel the same, then he will have torn an irrevocable hole in their friendship.
Pro: John is possibly bisexual.
Con: John is possibly not bisexual.
The argument circles itself endlessly like a dog chasing its tail, and even though Sherlock created this 'list' to ease his mind, so far it has only proven to be a cyclical, ceaseless mess that leaves Sherlock more confused each time he entertains it.
He refrains from calling Molly, his mother, or Mrs. Hudson because at this point he is wise enough to know that one cannot assemble a board meeting of women every time there is a decision to make about one's relationship. (Though, he is tempted to call a few times). Mycroft, Gavin, and all other male-figures in his life are out of the question for obvious reasons, though even if they were not, Sherlock realizes he must do this on his own, sans advice and consultation.
He has decided on this last point resolutely; he needs to figure this out himself because if—when, positive thinking—he develops a romantic relationship with John, he cannot constantly rely on others to help him navigate through it. This is a journey he must take on his own.
. . .
It is on day three of 'avoiding confrontation' that Sherlock discovers a loophole in his own resolution: he cannot turn to his friends or family for advice, but that does not mean he cannot consult other people. Namely, the various actors and actresses in romantic cinema.
While John is at the clinic diagnosing several hypochondriacs and a spectrum of actually ill folk (which Sherlock deduces from a few annoyed texts), Sherlock slips on his most clever disguise and makes his way to the film-rental store. His façade consists of an old maroon sweatshirt with a hood big enough to hide his hair, faded jeans peppered with little holes from a spilled acid experiment, sunglasses that take up half his face, and old trainers that have clearly seen better days. His goal is to look like someone who does not warrant a second glance, due to either shadiness or apparent homelessness. His secondary goal is to remain anonymous, as it wouldn't do well for his reputation if he were caught purchasing a box set of romantic films at Cinema Land. As he passes by the mirror on his way out of the flat, he finds that he looks like a cross between a drug-dealer and a common vagrant.
Excellent.
Sherlock stealthily makes his way through the bustling streets of London, hood pulled over his head, sunglasses shielding three-fourths of his remaining visage, with his hands tucked in his pockets and his chin tucked to his chest. To the common observer, he is a nameless man in shoddy apparel, striding purposefully towards his next hit or perhaps customer, being that his shady appearance is indicative of both a dealer and a user. To an informed observer with keen eyes, however, he is Sherlock Holmes dressed like a beggar, half-jogging his way to the film store in hopes of gleaning insight from London's beloved, hour and half-long films regarding the trite-side of romance.
Sherlock walks into the building and immediately cringes when the bell on the door chimes and loudly announces his arrival to the entire store. Thankfully, today appears to be slow, since the only other people in the small establishment are a store-worker, a mother with her baby, and a teenage girl. Sherlock warily looks around and scowls reflexively, already sick of the obnoxious movie posters and endless racks of trite, overdone garbage. On the other hand, he is about to purchase a few hours-worth of said garbage, so he supposes for the time being he does not have room to criticize.
With an intake of breath to steel himself, Sherlock warily approaches the front counter. He feels unbearably ridiculous, but consoles himself with the thought that he has at least retained his anonymity, if not his dignity. Deep breaths. Remember, this is for John.
The worker at the cash register can't be older than sixteen, with his spotty face, gawky frame, and too-long haircut. He is leaning forward on the counter on his elbows, one fist supporting his head as he stares blankly at his mobile's blue-lit screen.
Sherlock's sharp eyes dart across the boy's visage, soaking in his mannerisms, expression, and unconscious movements like a sponge, easily deducing his entire personality in a few short seconds. The nametag says 'Robert' but it is quite clear he is called 'Bobby' by his family and friends, and judging by his defensive posture and permanent, challenging expression, the choice of using his full name was a deliberate attempt to garner respect. (The operative word being 'attempt')
To ensure that his identity remain obscure, Sherlock lowers his voice past its normal, recognizable pitch. "Excuse me?"
Bobby lazily pulls his eyes away from the screen and regards Sherlock with a bored expression. "Yes?" he drones.
"Er, I'm looking for some love films." He coughs to conceal the latter part of his sentence. "If you, er, know what I mean?" He absolutely refuses to say "romantic movies" outright.
The greasy-faced teenager scoffs under his breath and rolls his eyes—why, Sherlock has no idea, other than the obvious conclusion that a grown man seeking 'rom-coms' is amusing—and obligingly leads him to his desired section. Strangely enough, the romantic film section happens to be buried in the farthest corner of the store, shielded from the other patrons by a large ensemble of cardboard cutouts, which Sherlock finds odd because he was under the impression that romantic films were widely sought. Wouldn't it be wiser to place this display at the front of the store?
When they are within roughly five feet of the shelves, Bobby stops and turns to him with a raised brow, "Hey, mister, not that we don't want your business or anything, but you know you could just get this stuff for free online, right?."
Sherlock frowns in confusion, but the boy is not privy to his silent response thanks to the thick glasses shielding half his face, and interprets his lack of response as embarrassment. Bobby sighs, twisting his features into an impression of sympathy, and pats Sherlock's shoulder. "Hey, it's okay. You're old, I get it. You didn't know this kind of stuff was all over the place on the internet—that's fine. Just, you know, in the future you could go there instead. Provides a little more discretion."
Sherlock's frown lessens. Despite his grating tone and comment about Sherlock being old—which he is just going to gloss right over—this advice is useful. He wasn't aware full length films were available online; but then, he's never before had the urge to seek one out, so why would he? "Thank you. If I ever require this material again, I will look online."
Bobby nods. A leer curls the edge of his mouth and he leans in conspiratorially. In a low voice, he mutters, "A personal favorite of mine is ' ', but that's just me. Maybe you're into other stuff."
Strange comment, but then again, strange boy. "Yes, thank you." If he would just leave already, Sherlock could get this whole bloody thing over with.
Bobby gives him another funny look, almost as if he is holding back laughter, before he departs and leaves Sherlock alone with the movies.
Sherlock clears his throat and shuffles over to the shelf of DVDs, where he quickly discovers the sunglasses make it too difficult to see the covers. Reluctantly, he removes them. After his eyes have had time to adjust to the bright lighting of the store, he returns his gaze to the shelves and—with no small amount of horror—immediately understands Bobby's strange 'recommendation'.
College Dorm 3: Big Busty Girls Meet Brandon the Babe-Magnet
XXX Hot Birds at the Beach
The Pizza Man 2: Extra Sausage Please
It takes Sherlock Holmes, certified genius and consulting detective, an entire minute to register the atrocities before him. He remains frozen in front of the display, his eyes widened in horror, his spine straighter than a ruler.
It isn't until the mother with child walks by and makes a noise of disgust that Sherlock finally snaps out of his temporary daze. Under her breath, she grouses, "Men," but he's far too horrified with the situation to bother glaring in response.
Bobby thought he was looking for—for this? Really?
His face is set aflame as he mentally recounts every comment exchanged since his arrival, this time with 'porn' replacing all of the blanks he implicitly meant to fill with 'romance'. Dear God.
Sherlock finds himself thankful now more than ever for his disguise.
After practically running from the depraved display, he wanders around the store until he finds a rack of DVDs labelled 'Romance—Romantic Comedies—Romantic Tragedies'
While he browses, Bobby eyes him over the top of his mobile—which is right in front of his face and nearly making him cross-eyed from its proximity—and winks, apparently under the impression that they shared a 'bonding moment' over by the adult films.
After a quick glare, Sherlock shoves the sunglasses back onto his face, hunches his shoulders, and tugs his hood down too, for good measure. They most certainly did not share any sort of 'bond' and Sherlock has no intention of letting the boy believe otherwise. He turns away to face his back towards the cash register and stares at the rows of films with a clenched jaw.
At this junction Sherlock finds himself quite eager to leave the store, and with his desperation to depart comes a renewed lack of pickiness. Without thinking twice, he sweeps several DVDs into his arms, only looking at the titles long enough to assure that they aren't porn, before he then walks up to the front of the store and unceremoniously dumps his findings on the counter.
The teenager stares down at the pile of films, realization slowly dawning across his face. "So when you said 'love films', you literally meant—"
"Yes. Now if you would just—"
"Wow, I mean, just, wow," Bobby interrupts, staring at the pile with great amusement. His gaze lingers the film whose the cover depicts two women swooning dramatically and a smug-looking man standing between them with his arms crossed. Cartoon hearts are dotted over the entire picture like sprinkles. "Crazy in Love?" The boy snickers. "Honestly, man, it would have been less embarrassing if you were buying porn."
"Kindly shut up, Bobby," Sherlock snaps. He digs around in his wallet for his card and then practically stabs it in his direction, waiting in annoyance for the kid to just ring him up and take his damn money, so he can get the bloody hell out of here.
Unsurprisingly, Sherlock's failure to address him by his nametag infuriates the boy. "It's Robert."
Feeling one-hundred percent not in the mood for this, Sherlock sharply retorts with, "Yes, I'm well aware of that. Unfortunately for you and your inflated sense of self-worth, I don't actually care what you prefer to be called. So, do both us of a favor and ring me up so I can leave, and you can return to your meaningless, adolescent existence filled with poor skin and mindless activity."
Bobby glares at him so fiercely that if looks could kill, Sherlock would probably be dead on the floor right now. He makes slow work of checking out each individual movie, deliberately being as irritating as possible as payback. Then, once he's swiped Sherlock's card and dropped the DVDs into a bag, he makes a point of saying, loudly, "Thanks for your business, Mr. Sherlock Holmes! Enjoy Sleepless in Seattle and Crazy Thing Called Love!"
Sherlock storms out the store as quickly as possible, but even two blocks later, Bobby's stupid laughter is still ringing in his ears.
. . .
His walk back home is much quicker than his first journey, but no more enjoyable. For the entire trip his heart thuds in his chest and his blood slams through his veins, thanks to the agitating cocktail of paranoia and irritation bubbling in his brain. For some reason, he is convinced that every lingering glance is a recognizing one and each bumped shoulder is a failed attempt to make him drop his bag and reveal to the world his box-set of romantic entertainment.
It is only when he has reached the delightfully familiar front steps of his flat building that his blood pressure finally begins to lower. With a triumphant, tired smile he makes his way to the door.
However, he should have known he wouldn't emerge from this situation unscathed, because right when he's inserting the key into the lock that he feels a tangible change in the air, something only his sixth sense could have picked up. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up and he slowly turns around, half-hoping the sight he is expecting will not be the one to greet him.
"I must admit, brother, I really had not expected you to develop such a sudden appreciation for romantic cinema," Mycroft calls from the partially lowered window of his ever-elusive black car.
Sherlock is half tempted to dart inside and lock the door, pride be damned, but he is well aware that Mycroft will only bother him tomorrow and every day after until Sherlock faces him, so he decides to just deal with it right now. With a clenched jaw, he walks back down the steps to the curb where the car is parked.
He leans down to the window and scowls. "Why are you here, Mycroft? I'm busy."
Mycroft's eyes dart to the bag in his hands, a smirk lifting the corners of his lips. "Yes, I can see that. In fact, that is why I am here."
Sherlock stares at him blankly. "You came here to watch films." It isn't a question, it is shocked statement he is fervently hoping Mycroft will refute.
Instead, because the universe seems to hate him today, Mycroft nods. "Indeed."
. . .
When they're upstairs in the flat, Sherlock is still having trouble wrapping his brilliant mind around the concept of Mycroft wanting to watch films with him all day. As children they did no such thing, so it isn't nostalgia, nor does Mycroft have any particular interest in cinema. In fact, if anything, he's even more repulsed by it than Sherlock.
Wary, Sherlock sets the bag on the coffee table and turns to face his brother. "Mycroft, what I am going to do has nothing to do with a case or anything else that might capture even an iota of your interest."
"I was under the impression that you were doing research." When Sherlock doesn't reply and averts his eyes, Mycroft insincerely clarifies, "For John, of course."
"You spoke with Mummy."
"I speak with Mummy on many occasions, brother. I'm afraid you'll have to specify which conversation you are referring to."
"You know which conversation I am referring to, Mycroft. Don't feign ignorance."
Then, because Mycroft is a great prat, he does exactly that. "I wouldn't dare, Sherlock."
"Mycroft—"
"Fine, yes, Mummy and I had a lovely chat on her drive back. I'm well aware of what she told you, but what I am not entirely privy to is what you plan on doing with her advice. So, care to explain your little project? Contrary to your belief, I am actually quite interested."
Sherlock is really, really not in the mood to play word games with Mycroft. What he'd like to do is sit on the couch with a plate of sweets and his notebook, and start tearing his way through his DVDs, not stand here and banter with his annoying, nosy brother. "Fine. Yes, I'm taking Mummy's advice. At the moment I am figuring out how I shall reveal myself to John and I assumed these films would be a good place to start. Obviously I plan to take many other factors into consideration, but John has always been a fan of sentimental romantic rubbish, so I figured some of the themes or concepts in these films might appeal to him."
"Ah, yes, I agree. John does have a taste for all things maudlin," Mycroft muses. "Now then, I suppose it is my turn to elaborate?"
"Yes," Sherlock replies sharply. "Why do you want to watch these stupid things with me?" Then, sardonically: "Did Mummy chide you for not setting aside enough brotherly bonding time for us?"
Mycroft rolls his eyes. "Hardly. I am here because I'd like to assist you in your endeavors."
Temporarily ignoring the strangeness of that statement, Sherlock retorts, "Mycroft, I will be watching romantic films all day. Trite, useless, poorly produced films. For hours."
"Then I will watch them as well," Mycroft coolly replies, lifting an eyebrow as if daring Sherlock to question him.
Any other might have halted in the face of the embodied British government, but of course, Sherlock is not 'any other' and has no problem with questioning his brother, especially since it seems he has lost his mind. With a little scoff, he retorts, "I really don't think you understand what I intend to do, Mycroft."
Dismissively, "I do, and I intend to stay. Trust me, Sherlock, this is for your benefit."
There are several components within that statement that are either laughably dubious or downright unlikely, 'trust me' being an example of both. Sherlock can't help but feel wildly curious, though, because he knows that Mycroft is nothing if not logical and would not insist on doing this unless there was a purpose. His brother detests silly illogic nearly as much as Sherlock himself. However abstract, Mycroft must have some sort of reason for showing up and demanding to join Sherlock in his film-watching endeavors.
With an annoyed huff, Sherlock concedes. "Fine, and how exactly is this in my best interest?"
Mycroft ignores him momentarily as his eyes land on the plate of treacle tarts Mrs. Hudson brought up this morning, a look of longing passing over his features. If Sherlock was not so invested in his answer, he would make a rather biting remark about diets and Mycroft's lifelong aversion to them. However, he is invested in what Mycroft has to say—shockingly—and thus manages to hold his tongue.
After two or three pregnant seconds pass, his brother tears his gaze away from the desserts and returns to Sherlock, his cool, vaguely amused expression sliding effortlessly back into place. "As much as you endeavor to think otherwise, I do have some experience in this area. Not in love of course," he scoffs at the word, "But in the more physical aspects of—"
Sherlock cuts him off before the next word has the chance to form. "Mycroft, if you came here to finish what Mum started at the restaurant, then I will gladly inform you that my refusal to have the 'talk' has not wavered in the past three days. So kindly remove yourself and never—ever—attempt to bring this up again, understand?"
Mycroft scowls. "I have no interest in teaching you the 'birds and bees', Sherlock. I was merely seguing into my reason for being here: I wish to help you and I have insight that you will find lacking in this nonsense," he gestures distastefully at the bag of DVDs. At Sherlock's expression, Mycroft rolls his eyes and drily remarks, "I also have no intention of sharing my conquests with you, brother, so feel free to remove that horrified look any day now."
His features immediately slacken in relief, but his wariness is not so quick to disappear. Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest and levels his gaze on his brother. "Why do you want to 'help' me, Mycroft? I hardly see your personal gain here."
A combination of annoyance and offense dash across his Mycroft's features. His grip tightens imperceptibly around his umbrella's handle. "Perhaps there is no personal gain here, Sherlock. Perhaps I am doing this for your sake and nothing more." Sherlock scoffs reflexively, causing Mycroft's frown to deepen. "You know, Sherlock, I truly do not understand why you seem to be under the impression that I am some selfish tyrant, when thus far in our lives I have done nothing but give you what you desire." His tone almost sounds hurt, which is one-hundred percent, off-the-rails-unexpected, considering Mycroft's lifelong detachment and cool emotional control. In fact, Sherlock is so thrown by Mycroft's response that he cannot even muster up a decent retort.
"What?"
Wearily, Mycroft seats himself on the couch and pinches the bridge of his nose, endeavoring to soothe an oncoming headache. "Sherlock, when we were children, do you remember who purchased your first violin?"
Sherlock blinks, confused. "Father, of course."
"No. I did. I told you father purchased the violin because I knew you, in your ridiculous obstinacy, would refuse to play just to oppose me. It would have been a shame to waste your talent, so I lied."
"But—"
"As a teenager, what ever happened to that irksome troll that blacked your eyes on several occasions?"
Sherlock swallows. "He moved."
Mycroft smiles blandly. "No, I moved him. Thanks to a few connections and well-placed bribes, his entire family was relocated to somewhere in the States. I don't know the specifics, nor did I care to learn them at the time."
"Mycroft, what are you trying to pr—"
"And Sherlock? When you nearly killed yourself on a weekly basis with overdoses, who dragged your high arse to a private hospital Mummy was not aware of? Who put you in an even more private rehabilitation center to ensure that your state never reached the public? Who convinced the Yard to allow a former cocaine-addict access to crime scenes and case files, despite his complete lack of authority and oftentimes sobriety? Who, pray tell?"
Sherlock's skin feels itchy with the uncomfortable, unfamiliar feeling of shame. This is not how their exchanges are supposed to go; they're supposed to banter and quarrel, Sherlock acting the part of the spoiled child and Mycroft playing the smarmy older brother. They aren't supposed to…to have this kind of conversation. At this point, Sherlock finds himself so thoroughly unnerved that he would gladly take the sex-talk in exchange.
Mycroft watches Sherlock flex his fingers and stare awkwardly at the back wall, before he sighs, features briefly melting into something like weariness. "I don't want your gratitude, Sherlock, and this was by no means an endeavor to make you squirm. I merely wanted you to be aware that even though you are often a bratty, over-entitled man child with very little regard for laws, safety, and a mishmash of other things, you are also my brother and I have every intention of assisting you in your pursuit of happiness. In this case, such a quest involves John Watson. The only reason I am spending time here at this messy flat with trite films, is because I want you to have John, Sherlock, in the same way I wanted you to have a violin, peace of mind, and sobriety. If the cost of your happiness is an afternoon of watching," his eyes skim over one of the covers, "'When Harry Met Sally', then so be it."
There is an awkward beat of silence, and then Mycroft makes as if to stand. Sherlock's eyes widen and he immediately takes a step back. "Mycroft, if you plan on hugging me…"
Mycroft rolls his eyes and sits back down. "For goodness sakes, Sherlock, I was merely adjusting myself. My apologies for traumatizing you."
Sherlock is saved from responding when Mycroft continues with, "Well, let's begin shall we?"
. . .
Four hours and three movies later, Sherlock is sitting on the couch with six pages of notes—what to do, what never to do, examples of the good, the bad, and the horrendously ugly—while Mycroft lounges beside him, peering raptly at the screen and contently nibbling his way through the treacle tarts.
The man on the screen caresses the side of the woman's face, and the camera zooms in dramatically on his glistening eyes. "Rachel," he chokes out, "you're the only star in my sky. Without you, my entire world is dark." Sad music swells in the background, the symphony of violins and wind instruments reaching their crescendo as he reaches out to brush a wisp of hair from the woman's face. "I need you like I need air, my love."
Sherlock carefully pens down the last few words—John might have a penchant for poetic drivel like that—and he is prepared to record the woman's response, but Rachel's teary, gasping reaction is drowned out by the sound of Mycroft scoffing.
"Sherlock, if you ever say something like that to John, I, like Rachel here, will weep in sorrow."
Sherlock frowns at the screen. "John says things like that to his girlfriends. All of that flowery, poetic nonsense. Perhaps he would like that." He can't really image himself in the position of the bloke onscreen, but if banal, whimsical words are what John wants, then Sherlock will gladly make an exception.
Mycroft considers this for a moment, eyes resting unseeingly at the screen. "John is a romantic, yes, but I don't believe he would appreciate this sort of overdone sentiment. One cannot base John's preferences on what he offers to his girlfriends, being that he assimilates to every new relationship depending on the girl's personality, lifestyle, and his own regard for her. He is quite eager to please, always putting himself before others, don't you agree?"
"Yes, John is the most selfless person I know. He is innately kind and thoughtful, which is why he was drawn to his current profession. Caretaker complex, and all."
"Indeed. Perhaps, then, what John would appreciate is a bit of role-reversal. Instead of taking care of someone else, I'm sure he'd enjoy having someone take care of him. As in, a day dedicated solely to him."
Sherlock scrunches his face in thought. "Like a birthday?"
"Not exactly. I meant more along the lines of a date. Perhaps start the day with a kind favor—in this case, that might be cleaning the flat, because I'm sure John feels just about as fond of your mess as the rest of us. Then, you could take him to dinner later on. I suppose you could confess your feelings at the conclusion of the date. "
Sherlock nods and scribbles out the 'only star in my sky' bit, and replaces it with 'day dedicated to John: clean flat, dinner, confess'. "Where should I take him? We both fancy Angelo's, but we go there often and I don't want this to seem too casual."
"Take him to L'étoile Brillante. Their stuffed quail is divine and the atmosphere should suit your intentions."
Sherlock glowers at the suggestion and makes a point of scratching 'do not go toL'étoile brillante' into his notebook. "For Christ's sake, Mycroft, I'm not taking him to that posh French nightmare. I hated going there as a child, but you and Mummy always ended up dragging me along to your ridiculous family dinners. I swore to myself that I would never go back as long as I could help it."
Mycroft rolls his eyes and takes another bite of tart. "Honestly, Sherlock, your dramatics would be better suited on a stage. It is a lovely restaurant and I'm sure John would enjoy being doted upon like this; it's rare that you two dine in establishments with actual silverware, after all," he says in disdain, "so it'll be a nice change from the usual."
As much as he dislikes admitting it, John probably would enjoy being taken to some fancy restaurant for one night, if not for the atmosphere, then for the novelty of the experience. With an annoyed huff, he crosses out the 'not' portion of his note, and changes it to 'Go to L'étoile Brillante'
The remainder of the day is spent finishing the next three films, and by the end Sherlock has accumulated roughly twenty pages of notes and Mycroft has ingested a sinful amount of treacle tarts. Suffice to say, both brothers are content with the results.
When Mycroft heads for the door to make his departure, umbrella swinging absently at his side, Sherlock stops him with a last-minute, "Wait."
Looking mildly surprised, Mycroft turns and raises an eyebrow. "Yes?"
Sherlock means what he says sincerely, but he is so unaccustomed to showing gratitude that he has to practically rip the words from his throat. He intends to say, "Thank you, Mycroft," but it comes out sounding more like, "Thhh-ank….you…Mm..ycroft."
Thankfully, Mycroft does not do anything soppy, like tear up in joy or somberly nod in earnest. Instead, he just smirks. "Now, now, don't hurt yourself. Wouldn't want you to pull a muscle getting those words out."
Sherlock glares in response, but it has no malice behind it, because he is relieved that the natural order to their relationship has returned. "You're still a pompous git, you know."
"And you're still a stubborn brat."
"Good," Sherlock nods. That's how things ought to be.
With a hint of a smile Mycroft lets himself out, calling over his shoulder, "Best of luck, brother mine."
The next morning, Sherlock is a man with a plan.
He wakes up at the unholy hour of three am, arms himself with a myriad of cleaning supplies, and sets about fixing up the flat. John is still sleeping, and he'll probably stay in bed until eight-thirty since he doesn't have to go to the clinic today, which gives Sherlock a total of five and half hours to be productive and wipe this place clean.
At four o' clock, when he's on his hands and knees scrubbing at a dried puddle underneath the kitchen table, he is reminded of the only other time he endeavored to clean: John's birthday. Amused, he realizes that all of his attempts at home-improvement revolve around John Watson. Today's efforts will be much different, though, because now he is not only attempting to clean the kitchen, but the entire flat as well. It's certainly doable—whatever Sherlock sets his mind to, he will bloody accomplish—but it will not be an easy task, mostly because he only has a theoretical knowledge of cleaning. An example of his ineptitude being, his complete lack of experience with a Hoover. He's seen John use it from the corner of his eye, running the thing across the carpet in straight lines and asking Sherlock to please move his feet so he can reach the space by the coffee table, but he's never felt inclined to try it himself. He's also undecided on the value of dusting, since it seems like a mostly pointless effort. Then there's mopping, which is tedious and involves a lot of things he does not have on hand, like a bucket that isn't filled with intestines and a mop that wasn't used to soak up his spilled plasma experiment last weekend. He also does not have any cleaning soap, because ever since John found out that Sherlock had been using his "good, name-brand dish soap" in several experiments that may or may not have involved pig fetuses, he started hiding the damn stuff.
That leaves Sherlock with only water from the sink, a stack of flannels, two towels, a duster, his own two hands and determination.
Well, he's done more with less.
. . .
"Tonight I'm telling John that I love him," he says to his skull an hour later, as he dusts its eye sockets. "I'm fairly certain he has similar affection for me, but I'm still somewhat…uneasy." Not nervous, of course, because Sherlock Holmes doesn't get nervous.
The skull peers back without comment, but it looks entirely too knowing for his liking. "Shut up," he mumbles, turning away to dust the bookshelves. "I'm not nervous. I'm just a bit apprehensive. Anyone would be."
. . .
Thirty minutes later, when he's belly-down on the floor of the kitchen, scraping dried blobs of gray something off the wall with a spatula, he notices a mouse hole. He considers it for a moment, measures its proximity to his face, and realizes that if a rodent emerged it would be within biting distance of his face. Sherlock has never given mice enough thought to form an opinion on them, let alone a fear, so he remains where he is and goes back to scraping. Five minutes pass before the mouse finally decides to scuttle out of its hole. It stops four point five inches away from his face and stares at him.
Sherlock weighs the likelihood of it having rabies and/or the inclination to bite his nose, since that feature is protruding from his face and therefore the most viable target. A few seconds tick by and the creature makes no move to attack, so Sherlock cautiously pulls himself into a sitting positon and drops his open palm in front of it, wondering in the back of his mind why the hell he is trying to pet a rodent. He supposes he has always been partial to animals—mostly dogs, but mice aren't all that bad, he guesses.
However, because this is not a Disney movie, the mouse does not crawl happily into his palm and allow him to pet it; instead, it dashes away in fear—or perhaps self-preservation, which Sherlock can respect—and hides underneath the fridge.
"You're not going to fancy living under there," Sherlock warns. "There's hardly any food, it's mostly body parts and mold cultures. John and I usually eat out, order takeaway, or have dinner at Mrs. Hudson's, so we don't really need to keep much in there."
The mouse obviously has nothing to contribute, so Sherlock locates the spatula and goes back to scraping unidentified matter off the wall.
. . .
"How the hell do you—" Then, miraculously, the beast turns on with a loud, whirring noise, making the past fifteen minutes of slamming random buttons a success.
Surprisingly, vacuuming is quite easy once he realizes it literally just involves walking the thing back and forth across the room. This is such a simple task that Sherlock mentally resolves to make this his go-to chore the next time John chides him for not helping out; this is far easier than washing dishes or—god forbid—ironing.
All is well, until he walks too close to the drapes, and the Hoover sucks them up and begins making an angry, choking noise that startles Sherlock so badly he drops the handle. The vacuum falls on its side and continues to try and swallow down the drapes, all the while screeching and whirring like an infuriated fax machine, and Sherlock, with no past experience to fall back on, frantically rips the plug out of the wall to shut it up.
Blessed silence ensues, and rather than give it another go, Sherlock decides that a half-hoovered room will do just fine.
. . .
At seven fifteen, Sherlock is in the kitchen surrounded by several bags of squishy unknowns, six or seven petri dishes filled with either congealed blood or saliva, two jars respectively marked "Do Not Open until Wednesday" and "Rhubarb", a small vial of violet liquid, and an unceremonious carton of—probably—expired milk.
Cleaning the fridge is, as it turns out, a messy endeavor.
He is having a hard time deciding which experiments he is willing to let go of, mostly because all of them have some sort of significance he has trouble overlooking. Take, for example, the small tub of fingers: he was planning on blending various poisons into liquid metal and reshaping the mixture into rings, to see how quickly the toxins would seep from the ring into a human finger. Think about the kind of murders a criminal could get away with, if no one thought to check the victim's ring for poison! He can't stand the idea of not knowing, so he decides to keep it.
However, as he goes through each bag and bottle, he finds that he is equally compelled to hold onto the rest of his experiments. Namely, his culture of Stemphylium mold, his tray of dissected liver, his vials of acids and bases, his bottles of chemical compounds, and the box of dead silkworms he's been gradually accumulating over the past month and half.
When the clock strikes seven forty-five, and he is still surrounded by the same items he had thirty minutes earlier, he starts to think perhaps he has a slight hoarding problem. He knows what he has to do.
He mournfully drags an industrial-sized garbage bag into the kitchen, and mentally chants "this is for John, this is for John", which only serves to slightly numb the pain as he throws all of it away.
All. Of. It.
He knows he'll have the fridge restocked with a new batch of experiments by next week, but it is still agonizing to toss all of that glorious potential into a Hefty garbage bag.
. . .
At eight thirty-seven, the flat is looking as clean as Sherlock has ever seen it in all of his time living there. The fridge is empty, except for a lone jar of jam and some breakfast (courtesy of Mrs. Hudson), the walls and floor are spotless, the carpet in the sitting room is clean, the bookshelves and tables are dusted to a shine, and all of Sherlock's loose-leaf papers have been stacked and organized in neat piles.
At eight thirty-nine, when John blearily emerges from his room and finds Sherlock beaming proudly at the center of what he probably assumes is someone else's flat—since there's no way theirs is this clean—his jaw falls open with an audible pop.
"Good morning, John," Sherlock greets cheerfully.
"Are you…are you wearing an apron?"
Sherlock glances down and remembers that yes, he is indeed still wearing Mrs. Hudson's floral apron. "Yes. I made tea, would you like some?"
John nods and numbly follows him into the sparkling kitchen. "You did all this?"
Sherlock smiles and places the steaming cup in John's hands. "I did. Mrs. Hudson brought up plates of bacon and eggs earlier, I could reheat you a plate if you want."
"Um, yes, yeah that would be good."
Sherlock swings open the fridge and pulls the plate out, and at the sight of the fridge's spotless interior, John actually gasps. "It's clean. It's bloody clean," John cries, jumping from his chair to get a better look.
Sherlock grins wordlessly and places the plate in the microwave for a few moments. John walks away from the fridge and returns to his seat looking vaguely disoriented, half from sleep but mostly from the shocking discovery of their clean flat.
Sherlock sets the plate before John and joins him at the table, pulling another plate from the counter and setting it in front of himself. "Mrs. Hudson also made waffles, but I know you don't like sweet foods in the morning."
A few minutes into breakfast, John asks, "Sherlock, don't take this the wrong way, but what is this?"
Sherlock sections off another piece of the waffle, focused on the task of gathering as much chocolate in his spoon as possible, and distractedly replies, "Caramel waffles drizzled with chocolate sauce."
"Okay, that isn't what I was referring to, but while we're on the subject, that is so much sugar to start the day off with."
Sherlock rolls his eyes and makes a point of taking an extra-large, chocolaty bite.
"I meant, this," John clarifies, gesturing vaguely around the room. "Cleaning the entire flat out of the blue, when usually I have to beg you just to rinse your dish after dinner."
Sherlock shrugs and affects innocence. "Perhaps I just felt the urge."
John takes a distracted bite of bacon and shakes his head, "No, that's not something you would just 'feel the urge' to do. Are you…" John freezes midsentence when something apparently horrifying occurs to him, panic gradually working its way across his features. In a low, upset voice, he asks, "Sherlock, are you ill? Is this your way of prepping me for the bad news? Christ, Sherlock, how bad is it? Why didn't you—"
"John," he interrupts, placing his spoon down beside his plate. "John, I'm not ill."
"Then…?"
Sherlock clears his throat, and despite his lack of a prepared response, words come tumbling forth of their own accord. "You're always doing nice things for me, so I thought I would return the favor. After all, you do spend a lot of time telling me I need to clean up my messes, so I figured this would be a display of gratitude you'd appreciate."
When Sherlock came up with today's events, he made the decision to save the 'confessions' for the end of the schedule, which is why he has neglected to tell John his true intentions, but what he tells John right now is not a lie either. He truly is grateful to have John in his life, and in a way this is a display of appreciation (and, unbeknownst to John, love)
"Wow," John says, setting his fork down. "I mean, Sherlock…thank you." Then, with a burgeoning smile, he repeats, "Thank you. I can't imagine cleaning was fun, but you did it anyway and I want you to know that I really appreciate it."
Sherlock smiles back, something warm and feathery unfurling in his chest at the sight of John's happiness. "Oh, and it gets better."
"Does it now? Because I just saw our fridge without the faintest trace of mold or gore, and I'm not sure how anything could top that."
"Well, I know you are fond of walks in the park, so I thought we could perhaps spend lunchtime there."
John looks well and truly floored. "A picnic? My god, that sounds lovely, but why do I get the impression that you aren't finished yet?"
Sherlock gives him a proud look and inclines his head in confirmation. "Correct, John. I see your deductive abilities are sharpening. After our picnic, I was thinking perhaps we could go out to dinner."
John raises his eyebrows, looking somewhere between shocked and thrilled. "We're going to dinner as well? Christ, Sherlock, where is this all coming from? Is this really just you showing your gratitude?"
Sherlock offers him a lopsided, sincere grin in response. "Yes, John, I don't show my appreciation enough, even though you more than deserve it. Think of this as one gigantic 'thank you John Watson'."
If words like "touched" and "heart-warmed" existed in Sherlock's vocabulary, then those would be the words he'd use to describe the way John is looking at him right now. However, since he most certainly does not have those adjectives at his dispense, he settles with 'happy'
"Anyhow, I happen to know of a lovely French restaurant I'm sure you'll enjoy. Are you familiar with L'étoile Brillante?"
"Lay-twall Brill-ee-aunt?" John repeats, butchering the word so fiercely that Sherlock is surprised the entirety of France doesn't come thundering up the stairs to correct him. "No, I definitely don't know it. I'm afraid my knowledge of fine cuisine hits its peak at Angelo's. It sounds great though, Sherlock." John grins.
And see, the thing is, Sherlock kind of loves the fact that John isn't lofty and supercilious like Mycroft, his mother, and—sometimes—himself. He loves that John is content to eat at a little Italian diner or stay home and order Chinese takeaway or eat Mrs. Hudson's homemade roast or—in this case—go to some posh French bistro.
Once, when Sherlock mentioned John's complete lack of pickiness—a topic that arose when John commented on Sherlock's 'ridiculous' aversion to all things green and healthy—John told him, "It doesn't matter what or where I'm eating, as long as the company is good".
Which, in context, meant that he didn't care about the food or setting, as long as he was there with Sherlock.
To test this little interpretation, Sherlock says, "Mind you, it's basically just a sparkly building filled with chandeliers and a bunch of French Mycrofts. You sure you're interested in going? I can always make reservations elsewhere." He's half-serious, actually. If John would prefer to dine elsewhere, he'll gladly change his plans. In fact, John could request that they eat at a bloody Burger King and he'd cheerfully agree.
"Well, you'll be there, won't you?"
"Yes, I certainly will be."
"Then," says John, "that settles it: I'd love to go. In fact, I can't think of a better way to spend my day off."
The park, as it turns out, isn't as unpleasant as Sherlock remembers.
Though, that could be because the last time he was here, he was twenty-two years old, high as a kite, and curled up on one of the benches with his life savings clutched in his hand, waiting for his dealer to show up. Not a good time in his life, to say the least.
Now, however, he is feeling high on an entirely legal substance: John Watson. They leisurely make their way through the park; John, soaking in nature and smiling peacefully, and Sherlock, reflexively rattling off deductions about the people around them.
"That girl is insecure about her new haircut, which is why she keep ruffling her bangs and tugging on the end of the ponytail. However, it is not just insecurity that plagues this girl: the ragged cuffs of her sweater suggest she picks at them a lot and her nails are bitten down nearly to the cuticle. There is a row of precisely lined-up barrettes in her hair as well as perfectly straight buttons down the front of her cardigan. All are indicative of Obsessive compulsive disorder."
"That man—there—yes, he's married but currently engaged in a string of gay love affairs. If you've noticed, he's stared at the bum of every single male jogger in sight in the past few minutes, without so much as a glancing at the cluster of women—over here—wearing sports bras."
"The couple to your left are cheating on each other with the same woman; they both stink of the same perfume, and her lipstick—pale coral, cheap—is on the neck and shoulder, respectively, of both the man and woman."
"That's just – brilliant. Utterly brilliant," John says in amazement, a smile pulling up the corners of his lips in the most delightful way. Sherlock doesn't say anything, just shoves his hands deep into his pockets and straightens his shoulders in satisfaction, but the small, genuine smile he shoots at John is more than enough to express his gratitude. The two walk in companionable silence, John admiring the park's sparkling pond and Sherlock admiring John's sparkling eyes.
"Did your mum ever take you to the park to feed ducks when you were a child?" John asks, gazing languidly at a group of laughing children crouched near the edge of the water.
Sherlock searches through his childhood memories, but only dinner parties, high-society gatherings, and other dignified, stuffy events surface. He never fed ducks as a child, but that is mostly because he never felt particularly inclined and his parents didn't care much either way. Even if the opportunity had been offered to him he probably would have scoffed at the idea because what was fun about throwing bread at birds? He considers saying that now, but John looks like the idea pleases him and Sherlock does not want to belittle something John cares about.
So, he goes with the simplest response and says," No, I did not,"
John raises his brows, surprised. "You haven't? Oh you poor man, you really must experience this. It's one of life's most simple and relaxing pleasures. Come on now, there are plenty of ducks and benches to go around."
Now it's Sherlock's turn to raise his eyebrows. Is John serious? No, he couldn't possibly be…
"Well? What are you waiting for?" John asks. Before Sherlock has a chance to respond, John reaches out and envelops Sherlock's hand in his, pulling him forward, and this small gesture alone is enough to wipe every notion of resistance from Sherlock's mind.
Once they've found a suitable spot, John pulls one of the sandwiches from the picnic basket and tears off a corner. "See? You just wait for a duck to waddle up, then you toss the bread on the floor."
John does exactly that, and then grins. "Fun right?"
Sherlock stares at John out of the corner of his eye and drily decides that 'fun' is not the correct word for it. 'Useless' perhaps? Tedious? John, ever-perception and well-versed in Sherlock's body language, sees that he is bored and quickly makes the entire experience much more interesting by saying, "For every duck you feed, I'll tell you a secret."
Sherlock perks up at this. "What kind of secret?"
John shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "Oh, big ones, little ones. You'll see."
Sherlock has a love/hate relationship with ambiguity, because although it often frustrates him, it is also a surefire way to peak his interest, which he knows John is abundantly aware of.
Plus, this is a glorious opportunity to talk about his favorite subject with his favorite subject. It is a chance he simply cannot pass up, even if it means having to throw food at wild birds in exchange.
"Fine." Sherlock tears off a chunk of bread and waits impatiently for one of the creatures to dawdle over. Eventually, a dirty-looking white duck deigns to make its way to their bench, head raised up expectantly. With a scowl, Sherlock tosses the bread at its feet and watches as it snaps it up and saunters off back to the edge of the lake.
"There. Secret, now."
John stares out at the lake, chuckling. "Fine. The first time I kissed a girl, neither of us really knew what the hell we were doing, and I ended up getting my lip caught in her braces. I was bleeding all down my chin by the time we'd stopped snogging."
"That sounds...painful."
John laughs. "Oh, trust me, it was. It looked so bad that at school the next day, I lied and told everyone I'd been in a fight."
Sherlock tears another chunk of bread off and tosses it aimlessly towards the crowd of ducks a few feet away. "Go."
"In ninth year I had a crush on three of my teachers, one of whom I gave a card and box of chocolates on Valentine's Day."
Sherlock breaks off another portion of wheat-bread and drops it near his shoe, watching as the ducks crowd around and peck at it. "Go."
"On my first date with this girl, Amy, I lied and told her that I too had a glutton allergy, because we had nothing else in common and I really wanted her to like me. Flash forward six months: she was staying the night at my flat and I'd forgotten about the whole glutton thing ages ago, so I didn't bother warning her that nothing in my house was glutton-free. Long story short, she ate a handful of crackers and ended up with hives all over her face and arms. Our relationship lasted about five minutes after that."
A piece of crust, another awaiting mallard. "Go."
"When I was seven, I had a dream I was sitting in a shop eating the most delicious ice cream in the world, except I didn't know the name of the parlor or the flavor of the ice cream. Up until I was ten, I was obsessed with trying every ice cream flavor I could find—pistachio, cookies n' cream, rocky road, mango, mint-chip, strawberry, Neapolitan, cherry-raspberry, butterscotch, black current, orange-crème—in hopes that one day I would stumble across the right one. I didn't, and I eventually moved on, but it's a minor life goal of mine to find that flavor before I die."
As Sherlock makes his way through the rest of the sandwich, he learns that John kind of believes in magic—"I was a big Harry Potter nerd in Uni, alright? I can dream"—that John's favorite color is silver, he has reoccurring nightmares about a clown he saw at a festival when he was six, his least favorite smell is vanilla, he briefly wanted to be a writer in secondary school, he once accidentally called his female teacher 'sir' in preschool and felt so bad about it that he cried, his favorite pet is a dog and his least favorite is a goldfish—"It's not a pet if you can't pet it"—and on his twenty-first birthday he got so pissed he ended up puking all over some girl he met at a club.
An hour later, Sherlock prepares to rip off another piece, when he realizes that the entire sandwich is gone. "I'm…I appear to be out of bread."
"You weren't supposed to throw such big chunks," John laughs. "Oh well. Here, we'll just split mine for lunch."
So they do. John hands Sherlock one half of the sandwich and eats his own half, the two of them sitting side by side on the bench in companionable silence. Sherlock spends his time nibbling absently at the sandwich—he's not particularly hungry—and thinks about all that John has told him. He likes discovering these intricate little tidbits about John's past, because these are the kinds of things he cannot deduce. There are so many layers to John, so many stories and expressions and experiences, that he knows he cannot hope to capture them all in a lifetime, let alone one afternoon. But funnily enough, he finds that he doesn't mind. He likes the idea that he'll never be able to completely figure John out; he likes that John is just as much of a wonderful surprise as he was when they first met.
For a man who is used to knowing everything about everything, this little bit of mystery wrapped up in blonde hair and a jumper is an absolute blessing.
"Hey, John?"
"Yeah, Sherlock?"
"I think I do like feeding ducks."
And this moment—this perfect, shining moment right here—is a mere glimpse of how incredible being with John will be. Mere hours stand between this less-than-platonic but not-quite-romantic relationship and an entirely new one, filled with love—actual, true-blue love—intimacy, romance, and all other things he never wanted until he met John. His blood thrums with anticipation, excitement bubbling through his veins like champagne and fireworks.
John turns to him and smiles—the kind that lights up his eyes and takes its time spreading across his face like a slow-moving fire—and turns his hand palm-up on his thigh. Sherlock glances down and takes the hint, dropping his hand into John's and squeezing lightly.
"Good," says John, "I'm glad."
A/N: So, I suck. Like, big time suck, because I made you guys wait a million years for this chapter, especially when the last update was freaking cliffhanger. I'm so sorry guys, I've just been drowning in my deeply procrastinated AP LANG homework, my stressful family situation, and a whole mishmash of other things that have prevented me from updating on time. I also really struggled with this chapter (and the next) because this is the point where everything is starting to come together and it is so difficult to wrap everything up nice and pretty like a Christmas present.
But DON'T WORRY, I will finish this. I promise. *pinky swears with both pinkies*
Also-and this is what I am most ashmed to admit-part of the reason I haven't updated, is because I have been neck-deep in Supernatural binges for the past three weeks. I mean, I really did not expect to fall in love with the show so violently, but from the moment I saw episode one I knew I was in for it. I just finished season eight right now and I'm practically bursting from the urge to word-puke my Destiel feels onto paper, so to all you Supernatural fans lurking out there: EXPECT DEAN/CAS ONSHOTS SOON.
But ANYWAY: I solemnly swear I will have part 2 up by Saturday at the latest. And after that I plan to write a handful of chapters throughout the school year (omfg school starts next week for me, what happened to my endless summer).
Yo, as usual, feedback would be absolutely glorious. So tell me what you think in the comments, you wonderful people you!
THANK YOU GUYS FOR BEING SO UNDERSTANDING. You are all beautiful, lovely darlings who each deserve a million hugs and a muffin basket.
Until next time, readers! X0X0